Star Wars: Slaver's Story
by Mazzic's Folly
Summary: The Clone Wars have been over for 17 years. The Zygerrian slaver race has fallen under Imperial dominion. Trapped in a feudal system, one Zygerrian attempts to change his fate. But to do this he must make a bargain and come to terms with his horrendous upbringing as a slave driver. All original characters. Ties into The Clone Wars TV show.
1. Chapter 1

Slaver's Story

Two years before the destruction of the first Death Star, a remote, barely habitable planet in the Expansion Region plays host to a footnote in galactic history. Controlled by the Zygerrian slave empire, their hierarchical structure trades servitude for poverty, and a middle-class presides as workhorses for the high-born nobility. In this feudal-like system, the privileged but resentful faux-nobility of Zygerria preside over hundreds of small strip mines, with low-born Zygerrians barely more valuable than the slaves they drive. The system is cruel and efficient. However, in the New Order, not even cruelty goes without Imperial oversight. The Galactic Empire lurks in the background, carrying out the Imperial policy of control and consolidation even here. Within this backdrop, a slaver's son learns that even the courage to confront one's own evil has consequences of inner-self.

Chapter 1

The study in which the slaver stood was the sharpest of contrasts to the world outside. Blue and gold wallpaper gave any room the illusion of opulence, and this one had furniture to match. Molecularly fabricated crystal was everywhere. Vases, furniture frames, and tables were all made of synthetic quartz. The room had luxury, but it was the cheap, thin kind. At least the crystals bounced the light around. At night, the world's oversized moons shone in from one of two windows and a skylight, allowing the Zygerrian, with his night-attuned eyes, to fill out financial ledgers and procurement forms. Years ago, his job was to walk the rounds in the quarry, disciplining slaves with his lightwhip, boots, and gauntlets. He still did, sometimes. At this stage of his life, however, his duties bent more toward the managerial side. Data-work was his current duty, and the dark, eerie twilight of shifting moonlight on cheap crystal helped keep distractions at bay. Besides, they said it kept a Zygerrian's eyes sharp.

However, right now the crystals did not dance. It was daytime on Yoland's World, and behind him the toil of hundreds did not penetrate the sound-dampening walls of Ferro-Haz manor. V'rell Ferro-Haz was staring at the opposite window, the one facing the laser fence of his father's meager estate.

Zygerrians were a furred race of humanoids. Sporting bat-like ears, they nonetheless had shared a similar facial structure with humans. Four horny protrusions grew from their lower jaw, except for the females, who for whatever reason, lacked these. As a civilization, they were among the most universally hated races in the galaxy. The reason was simple. Zygerrians were slavers. Few intelligent species possessed their lack of nuance when it came to the ownership of other people. Any Zygerrian who rejected slavery, quite simply, would face enslavement themselves. Speciesism was the more than an outlook to them. It was their economic backbone. Throughout much of galactic history, when slavery was illegal, Zygerrians fueled their enterprises by attacking ships from Outer Rim worlds, taking all occupants as slaves. The trade lingered on, diminished, but alive, until the Clone Wars, and shortly later, the formation of the Galactic Empire.

Now, Zygerrians had the fiscal security to not only make money on slaves, but off of them as well. They moved in on the Galaxy's farthest outcrop, the Expansion Region, for the fabled minerals many sought but few found profitable to mine. As it happened, slaves brought down production costs immensely.

A small dust cloud was visible on the horizon. V'rell pulled out a compact set of macrobinoculars. He held them to his eyes, getting a better view of the incoming guest.

The landspeeder sped across the desolate wastes of this miserable Outer Rim planet. The atmosphere was borderline, even with the help of terraforming factories. A heavy ozone layer existed, protecting the planet from the radiation of its expanding red giant. It was always a concern that one day the terraforming elements being added to the air would degrade the ozone layer, unleashing the ultraviolet wrath of that dying star. There was also the worry that it would cause the atmosphere to leak into space. For now, however, after barely a century of aggressive colonization, everything still held together. It was a given that the landspeeder in front of him was fully enclosed and pressurized. Everyone wore rebreathers outside, even the slaves, if only to increase productivity.

Completely lifeless when first prospected, Yoland's World was an arid dustball, worth only as much as the ore in her veins. The atmospheric layer was so thin that sometimes the blue sky (and it was only blue on good day) would cede to the blackness of space, blood-red sun shining happily amongst it as though nothing was wrong. A bright bloodstain in a black void. There was probably poetry there, but V'rell's mind was on other things.

To V'rell, the harsh outdoors were a reminder of the political landscape he inhabited. Rebellion had reached Yoland's World. The Galactic Empire itself had little presence on this meaningless planet. As one of their gestures of goodwill to Zygerria, the Empire granted them a virtual monopoly on the Expansion Region, as long as a percentage of what was mined flowed to them. All was not well, however. Thousands of kilometers distant was a region locked in revolt. It was a slave revolt, led by a Calibop the slaves called General Serafim. Her rebel guerillas had been raiding ore storehouses and destroying mining operations. Serafim's people took whatever product they could, and whatever slaves they could cram into their tiny vehicles. It was never much, but it was enough. The facilities themselves were always left in flames.

Each freed slave filled the rebels' ranks, and in response the Empire had dispatched a task force, led by the heavy cruiser _Judland_ , to intervene. It was an older _Victory_ -class Star Destroyer, the post-war stepping stone to the leviathan _Imperator_ -class that currently stalked the Galaxy. On Yoland's World, however, it had proven more than effective. Faced with a dedicated Imperial presence, the Rebels were now hemmed inside their caves. The raids had all but stopped, and the Imperials anticipated complete victory within the next lunar cycle.

To those Zygerrians on Yoland's World left unaffected by the revolt, the Imperial blitzkrieg was a weight off their backs. And so, V'rell's father, Tu'lok Ferro-Haz, managed his estate with measured confidence. Tu'lok was both the typical taskmaster of Zergerrian tradition, and a humble plebian who disliked decadence. Tough but practical, he had groomed V'rell to be a cunning power-broker. In the past, V'rell would wonder why, considering his lowly lineage. He belonged to a strictly hierarchical society, after all, just another dilution in the noble bloodlines, destined to either inherit his father's operation, or to serve another house in some demeaning capacity.

Today, though, V'rell understood that his father's faith had not been misplaced. He _was_ cunning. It was what brought the landspeeder to him today. It was what would change his life in the hours to come.

Tu'lok Haz sat in his study, reflecting on the imminent deal he was about to broker. More specifically, he dwelled on what it represented for his line. The Ferro-Haz house belonged to what many would consider the workhorse class of Zygerrian society. The faux-nobility. The suffix 'Haz' denoted their mixed bloodline to the true Ferros, who commanded large Ryll mines in Hutt space. Yoland's World, by contrast, was one of the planets where the nobility shipped cousins, in-laws, and anyone else of mixed blood to make themselves useful. There was no underclass in Zygerrian culture. Vagrancy was not tolerated. You either had a name or you had a patron. House Ferro-Haz, for all its obscurity, was still a name. They were but one of many familial enterprises serving the Zygerrian monarchy, and the arguably more powerful nobility beneath it.

Some faux-nobles, or FNs, through the competitive nature so many Zygerrians possessed, had managed to create large networks of holdings. Within such a stratified culture, social climbing was possible only for FNs. And even that took great cunning and ambition. Once an FN attained enough power, Zygerria's monarchy was obliged to grant noble status. After all, noble houses declined all the time, and new blood was always needed. This was the royal family's primary purpose, to steward the balance of power in Zygerria's slave empire. To achieve recognition, FNs engaged in aggressive business practices. Two thirds of all houses here had been made vassals to other families. Currently, that was the extent of Tu'lok's ambitions. To avoid vassalage.

A simple being, owning his own land was all Tu'lok ever wanted. And yet, he never wanted V'rell to follow in his footsteps. Not that he had any qualms about slavery, or the ethos of his people. He just wanted more for his son. He wanted V'rell to inherit something that would sever their ties to the Ferros, and this dustball of a world. A pathway to Zygerria, where V'rell could raise a large noble family and have offspring to branch the Haz name out into other businesses. For his line to be tied to this world forever… No. That would not do. It was why V'rell was an only child. All Tu'lok's hopes had to rest on him. That way, when V'rell did attain enough prestige to leave this planet, there would be nothing but an old skugg to leave behind. The Haz name would grow new roots, as a noble house. His legacy would have a future.

From the beginning, he knew he needed more land. After many failed prospects, Tu'lok was finally able to procure two new sites rich in ore. In this way he would avoid appearing weak to other FNs. However, the Rebellion in the eastern quadrant complicated things. Refugee houses were flooding in, and he feared that if his claims got jumped by other FNs, the courts would not support him in the interest of collective productivity. It had happened to him before, in calmer times. With sitting on claims frowned upon, the only option was to develop them. However, after spending so much capital to acquire them in the first place, the family's funds were depleted.

And so Tu'lok fretted. Was he stuck here? Was his son destined to inherit a single old manor? Or worse, as the offspring of a faux-noble, would V'rell be swallowed up by another house, losing all noble status forever? Would he, like so many others, be forced into guard duty or serve as secretary for some pompous inbred? It was a vexing situation.

Fortunately, however, that was not going to happen. His son was no more accepting of such a fate than he was. In the dimly-lit study, Tu'lok smiled.

He had raised him well.

It had all come together three weeks ago. Without a word to his father, V'rell secreted off to a surreptitious meeting in the hamlet masquerading as Yoland World's commercial center, Trade Town. In a dingy cantina there, a deal was struck. Afterward, V'rell approached his father with the news of his labors. An FN house, their distant cousins the Ferro-Di'aks lost all their assets in a rebel raid. Having escaped and reached Trade Town, they were fervently analyzing their options. The only way to retain privilege of any sort was to own property. As soon as V'rell learned this from media reports, he had explained, he contacted them with the offer of vassalage. The Ferro-Di'ak family would work for Ferro-Haz's land claims. In response to this declaration, Tu'lok huffed in derision, "V'rell, my boy," he said then, "Vassals are only worth the skin if they have means. It's money we need, not staff," He paused, noting the glint in his son's eyes, "Unless you have something else in mind?"

V'rell nodded, "They won't just be vassals. The Ferro-Di'ak house has offered their only daughter up for marriage, Seka Ferro-Di'ak," he paused for effect, "to me."

His father changed his expression slightly as V'rell continued, a half-smile now on his face, "Surprised?"

Tu'lok tilted his head upward in amusement, "You took initiative, it seems. You always did seem interested in the eastern revolts."

"Where there is conflict, there is opportunity. I apologize if it seems I went behind your back, but nothing is finalized. I confess that I wanted to impress you."

Tu'lok nodded passively. Then to V'rell's surprise, he suddenly smiled, "I had always hoped you would take charge of your affairs this way. You've proven quite the opportunist. So, tell me more."

V'rell's eyes lit up now as he explained, "Well, from the Di'ak's perspective, this is the only way they will maintain their status as owners. A marriage will obligate the Ferro nobles to dole out a dowry. Enough for us to start developing both our claims."

He continued, "The Di'aks will acknowledge Haz-Ferro vassalage, and I will be in a position to manage them directly. Seka's parents get one claim, their profits flowing through us to the Ferros, and I'll get to experience some real managerial work with Seka on the second. That's the proposal I give to you. We are already filled to capacity with slaves, father, so the new mines will become productive quickly. And besides, what better way to avoid interference from the other houses? It is good for you, good for me, and cows a weaker house into our servitude. What do you think?" V'rell finished his pitch. Hands steepled with a proud grin on his face, he looked every bit the proud slave master Tu'lok wanted him to be.

Tu'lok mused the ramifications of this, his smile replaced with a contemplative look, "I see. You are the offspring of an FN marrying the offspring of another FN. That gives you technical independence. At the same time, you revert to the lowest rung of nobility."

V'rell nodded, "But I control a vassal. It's counter-intuitive, but distancing myself from our noble house actually makes me a more attractive prospect for elevation. The Monarchy never wants to ruffle the feathers of the noble class more than they have to. Don't worry, though. I'm not going behind the Ferros' back, either. The Di'aks are keeping them appraised. My marriage and your land allows the elder Di'aks to remain productive for them, at least for a while. I'll be V'rell Haz-Di'ak, subservient to you, not house Ferro. Ferro will pressure you to keep me on a tight leash. Do so. Eventually it won't matter. When the time is right, I'll be able to cut ties completely, and become truly independent with my own vassal. With a few years of industrious expansion, I am confident Zygerria will begin to take note. I will make trips to the Zygerrian court with my wife starting with our honeymoon. Oh, they will know of my vitality. I'll be an enticing prospect to the high-borns."

Tu'lok stroked his furred cheek, then nodded once in approval.

V'rell grinned with anticipation. In his own way Tu'lok was a selfless being, not caring for his own elevation. He'd grown too attached to his manor, his work. All ambition he had was reserved for his son. He wanted to see him accrue wealth, property, and chattel, one day lifting their line off this wretched world. It was why V'rell knew his father would go for the deal.

Tu'lok returned his thoughtful gaze to his son, "The Ferros expect us to produce. As long as they think I can hold the Di'aks in line for a while, I think you are right. This will work."

"Yes," V'rell began, "Profits between our three camps will soar. I'll have the resources to expand again. And in a matter of years, I will become nobility. I know it. This is the first step."

Tu'lok nodded with a smile, "You've clearly thought this through, my clever son. So, in the end you control two claims, I continue my operation without fear of politics, and my legacy continues through you. In strength." He paused then, thoughtfully nodding his head, "We'll have to talk percentages, of course, but in spirit I accept your proposal," he said, pride now showing in his face as he continued, "Just be careful. Wives can be even more ambitious than their husbands. It is why I have abstained from such things. Matriarchs and patriarchs are of equal standing, and she may try to get the better of you with schemes of her own."

V'rell smiled and bowed, "I understand, father. I won't be outshone."

Tu'lok smiled warmly, "As I am now certain. Just… be sure to visit me often in the years to come. You've been my pleasure and pride in this household."

V'rell bowed his head once again. Familial affection was the typical extent of Zygerrian sentiment, of which Tu'lok had more than normal, "I'll never forget the being that forged me, father. I promise you I will."

In the manor's foyer, the airlock hissed open. Seka Ferro-Di'ak strode imperiously in, her triangular face plain and lacking the gilded tiara that so many other Zygerrian noblewomen wore, even the faux-nobility. One could say it befitted her refugee status. Still, her traveling robe was embroidered with bullion. She strode in with a Duros slave, her escort and driver, undoubtedly. It was irregular for a slave to be trusted with such duties, but not unheard of. Tu'lok and V'rell stood before her, bowing in greeting.

"Greetings, Seka of house Di'ak," spoke Tu'lok formally, "Welcome to the Farro-Haz mine. One of three of this house's holdings."

Seka supplicated gracefully, "House Ferro-Di'ak honors your strength and vitality, patriarch. And yours, V'rell Ferro-Haz. May the Di-ak's misfortune add to it." The Duros took off Seka's robe, revealing a form-fitting dress the color of sand, only brighter. Calligraphic swirls branched along one side, an asymmetry Zygerrians generally found fashionable.

Tu'lok nodded, clearly satisfied with Seka's etiquette, "Purpose redeems one's status, whatever the circumstance. Please, dinner is prepared. If your slave would be so good as to wait in the servant's quarters, I believe we can conduct business."

Seka motioned to the Duros behind her with a haughty upswing of her hand. The slave bowed, hung the robe he carried, and hastily disappeared through a door indicated by a nearby guard.

Dinner was tedious in the beginning. Although V'rell had initiated the deal, as patriarch it was Tu'lok's job to do all the negotiating. Tu'lok poured over the datacards Seka brought, nodding now and then. Seka sat there dutifully, eating daintily so not to have her mouth full should she be required to speak. V'rell ate little, as the weight of what he was doing was bubbling up in him. This was as permanent a deal he had ever made. His father had understated the case. Still, V'rell mulled over his situation in silence as Tu'lok pestered his consort with the details of Zygerrian merger law. He glanced out the wall-length windows. The transparisteel was on an obscured setting. All that was visible were faded outlines of the dusty quarry walls. Shadows were already creeping up it in the late of day. No outside noise, of course. The manor's construction was state-of-the-art in noise suppression.

V'rell observed Seka, still answering questions, nodding her head at the proper times, giving every sign of respect and attention. As Tu'lok wrapped up the business formalities, Seka took initiative in changing the subject.

Her formal voice bordered on shrill, "I wish I could say otherwise, but the Rebellion is not the only threat to our business. I fear the Empire is one as well. The Imperial governor tears up our property rights when his army comes to clean up after a raid. I'm sure V'rell's told you that our mine has been confiscated by them." Her voice reached another octave for sarcastic effect, "They say we have voided our contract, per some ridiculous fine print. Without money to buy it back, we are left to the wind. I've even heard that Wookiees are being imported now to the mines they take."

V'rell knew this cycle well. The homeworld had remained silent in the face of these fog-of-war seizures. After supporting the separatist Confederacy during the Clone Wars, fear of antagonizing the Empire paralyzed them. The general sense was that Zygerria had gotten off easy.

Tu'lok was about to speak on this, but V'rell felt compelled to get the first word in, "Republic, Empire," he began, "Since when have the powers-that-be truly been our friends? Even the Separatists kept us at arm's length. We didn't even have a seat on their war council."

Tu'lok spoke up now, suddenly animated, "The Confederacy was our best hope, son. The brief glory it gave us allowed Zygerria to barter with the winning side from a position of strength. But Seka, don't be so quick to condemn the Empire. My esteemed son forgets, years ago the Emperor signed an executive order that legalized our institutions. It was put in place without the senate's deliberation. The Republic never did such a thing in its entire history. I consider Palpatine a friend of Zygerria. Something none of us expected when the Confederacy fell," Tu'lok paused to sip his wine, then continued, "But even so, the Emperor is still a creature of Coruscant. Humans can make fine clone soldiers, but slave-mastery was never their talent. Really, Wookiee slaves? They won't last a month in this climate," he shook his head in contempt, "The Empire has no experience with the trade. Even without the Jedi controlling them, a government doesn't throw away their backward ideals overnight. They should see through their humanist pride and allow us free reign over the slave trade. Senate be kriffed."

Seka nodded in agreement, "The innate skills of some species can't be ignored."

V'rell raised his glass, "Indeed. Father speaks well. All I meant to say was that the Empire does what any powerful house would do. The elites on Coruscant may not care who gets ground under their heel, but of course they still need us. Most importantly, Seka, they affirm through their actions that our philosophies are true. Might makes right. The rebels that began your predicament are currently learning that. At the point of a Star Destroyer."

Tu'lok raised his glass in agreement, "Indeed so, son."

V'rell was thankful his father didn't catch on the subtext of his words. Yes, the Empire didn't care who got in their way, because they were monopolizing the slave trade. He had spoken with his father on this many times, yet he stubbornly refused to believe it. Surely Zygerrians, with their progressive beliefs and ideals, would be indispensable to the New Order. Or so the thinking went. The pride of the Zygerrian people sometimes blinded them to the obvious. Might makes right was a double-edged vibroblade. None sharper.

V'rell nodded at his patriarch's compliment without looking at him. His attention was still on Seka as he continued, "Fear not, dear friend. You have suffered much, but to join with strength in our troubled times is the only reasoned course of action."

The feast continued. Finally, when all was consumed, Tu'lok stood up, and so did Seka and V'rell. The patriarch of the Ferro-Haz manor bowed to them, "Seka, you are an able representative for you house. I will be proud to see my son wed to such a being. I leave you now to your betrothed, to further our business. I expect the finalized details by morning,"

As befitting Zygerrian culture, covetousness was more of a virtue than romantic love. Everything was about possession and control. Seka seemed unfazed by being the chattel prize of a business partnership. From a Zygerrian's perspective, this was a wise move. Young faux-nobles, V'rell included, generally lived isolated lives indoors. If he were such a position, he might even welcome being married off this way. A new home. Possibly even meaningful companionship. After all, one never knew.

V'rell perceived no schoolgirl naiveté from Seka during their discussion. As Tu'lok left, however, she flashed a half-smile to him, "Well, V'rell, my love," There was only the hint of sarcasm in her voice, but it was enough to perceive, "I believe we should get to it, don't you?"

V'rell nodded, his expression blank in spite of himself, "Yes. There is much to discuss."

The turbolift irised open, both occupants entering V'rell's study. It was adjacent to his bedroom, but there was no reason to go there. This room would do. V'rell stopped halfway to the door, and turned abruptly around to face Seka. Her expression was passive, as though expectant of some initiating act. V'rell's nervousness was gone now, replaced with an adventurous excitement. _At last._ He thought, as the being in front of him nodded in silent acknowledgement.

 _I can leave this wretched place._

V'rell bowed as low as he could, his hands placed palm-first on the carpet, "Agent Taul Hi'si," he began in a hallowed tone, "I humbly request membership into the Rebel Alliance."

The Shi'ido shapeshifter posing as the faux-noble Seka spoke in a new accent now. Unrefined, lower in tone, but infused with authority, "Membership? This isn't a club you're vying for. For now, we'll start with asylum."


	2. Chapter 2

Part II

As V'rell remained bowed, he felt a subtle sensation, almost imperceptible, as if a pressure on his mind had been released, "I thank you for your consideration. I honestly didn't think the Rebellion would lower itself… for someone like me." Flowery rhetoric was how he always spoke, and it was wasn't easy to feign a contemporary style. This would have to do. If it offended the Shi'ido, then so be it.

Taul spoke above him. "Off your knees, slaver. I'm here because the General seems to appreciate irony. It's my mission to take you to our base. You know how mismatched the Rebellion is at this point, so I respect you enough for that."

V'rell rose, looking at his liaison's face with a new eye, "That sounds good-" he stopped short as he noticed Taul's features. Still Zygerrian, but not the same visage as the one he'd dined with downstairs. The fur was discolored and inconsistent in places. Taul's features were symmetrical enough, but the proportions were off. The eyes were too small and spaced too far apart. Looking beyond Taul's face, his dress was several sizes larger than before. The Shi'ido smiled, grotesquely this time, as it curled unnaturally wide across a now very alien face. Suddenly V'rell felt a stab of primal fear for the sheer surprise of it all. Within a few seconds, however, he had his composure back.

V'rell had expected this. The human spy he had met in Trade town had detailed him on his liaison's capabilities. Taul Hi'si was a Shi'ido, a race with peerless shapeshifting skills. Only a few species had the ability, and even then it was usually limited in its utility. Another changeling race, the Clawdites, needed elaborate suits and intense training to pose as another species. And even they would revert to their natural state if focus was lost. The Shi'ido could take a form and hold it without constant effort. Even though the form tended to be rough, they could augment it with a mild form of telepathy. It was what V'rell felt releasing from his mind. With their photographic memories, a Shi'ido could project the image of another into the minds of those nearby. It filled in any flaws in the physical disguise, and allowed great leeway for what the Shi-ido actually looked like. The most skilled, he had heard, could even make worn clothing irrelevant.

V'rell also knew that this particular Shi-ido was male. He didn't know how fixed genders were for changelings, but that was how the contact referred to him. _It would be best not to add to any awkwardness by forgetting that._ Making the shift in his own perception proved easier than expected for V'rell. Already in Taul's voice, there was enough deepness to make the mental leap. Or maybe it was the agent's appearance now. He still had to excuse the dress, of course.

V'rell cleared his throat as he responded, "That sounds good to me. I look forward to joining my true calling."

Taul scoffed then. If he was impressed by V'rell's reaction, it didn't show on his unsightly face, "So, you actually think you are one of us?"

 _Well, so much for pleasantries. I'd hoped the rebels would make things easy, but no, apparently I need to defend myself._ Well, he supposed they couldn't just give him the benefit of the doubt. Working through the annoyance, V'rell's mind switched tacks. How to do this?

V'rell was no rousing revolutionary. How could he be, living such a life? What Taul wanted to hear was rousing prattle on sentient rights, freedom for all, and living without fear. All V'rell cared about was leaving the manor, to discover what all they stood for actually meant. The agent was right. He wasn't one of them yet. He was merely fascinated by them.

"No," V'rell began, "I'm a slaver who wants to stop being one. I want to be free of my set life, and feel purpose for once."

Taul scoffed at his threadbare, but honest, answer, "I wonder. Look at you. You have the air of a pompous inbred. I have heard of you, from former slaves. There was one who passed through here, and not long ago, either. You killed her friend by stepping on his throat. You were captain of the guard. Didn't seem repentant then."

 _He's trying to pinpoint when I turned,_ he realized. _If only it were that simple._ V'rell struggled with his memory. Yes, he remembered the incident, and others like it. A flicker of shame passed through him. It wasn't that he stepped on her friend's throat. He'd stepped on the back of his neck. Slave-driver boots had downward-pointing retractable blades that could snap in and out with deadly efficiency. Heel-blades. They were placed on the outside edge of the boot, allowing the spectacle of a spout of blood to further intimidate slaves. He'd done in at least a dozen slaves that way, over the course of half his life. Slaves that were either rebellious or spent. Step on the condemned, assert the most intimidating stance for those who watch, and sever the spinal nerve, quick and neat. The Zygerrian way. At the time, it was just something he had to do. Just another duty. He lowered his head at the memory. Apparently, the Shi-ido came prepared, "Yes. I'm a murderer," V'rell began, "What would you like me to do?" He scoffed, "Become someone else? A remarkable gift, but I haven't the talent for it. I am the son of a small-time slaver who grew up committing unforgivable acts. What do you think I was born as, Shi-ido?"

Taul's features remained stony, "We are what we become. Sometimes, even a changeling has to remember this."

"I was raised just like them. That's not the same thing as becoming them," V'rell said, trying to bring all his rhetorical lessons to bear. _How to do this without sounding like the heartless misanthrope I actually am?_ He walked over to the window overlooking the strip mine, gesturing to it, "That was the playground of my entire life, agent. I am the kind of being these walls mold, without fail. Anyone who isn't shaped like as these wall demand, themselves are crushed…" He turned his head to peer at the agent, "Did you expect me to treat slaves with kindness and compassion, in spite of all around me? Or did you think I contacted you to redeem myself? Make up for my evil acts?"

Taul raised his chin slightly, "Redemption?" He made a noise of derision, "Well, I'm glad you're not that naïve. But I expected some remorse, yes."

V'rell's lip twitched. _All right, I have a counter for that,_ "Remorse. As in clinging to the past. I had responsibilities in the manor that to shirk from would have led to me being cast out, imprisoned, even. I don't think you understand my species very well." V'rell's confidence was returning, "Here's how it is with us. Zygerrians see ourselves as terraformers. The millions of us spread across the galaxy, accruing wealth and service by dominating others, building our perfect little worlds," he spread his arms, "Like this one, a bubble where the strong command the weak. In this case it's literal; we control the very air they breathe. The merit of this is not debated on Zygerria. Not debated, because to us, it's scientific, measurable," Taul reclined in his seat, no doubt finding the lecture dull. _Hold on. I'm getting there_ , "The concept of might makes right is familiar to the Alliance, obviously. You represent the idealism that the Republic once stood for. Even Zygerrians have been surprised by how the Empire changed things. For a time I even allowed the galactic status-quo to justify actions I knew were wrong. But I felt myself growing empty, wondering why I was forced to do this. I felt stronger and stronger about it, until finally, I could take it no more. That's how this works. It was a gradual process, agent. There was no revelatory event that turned my life around. A rebel I have always been. These walls merely buried that reality. That reality is why I stand before you."

Taul frowned, or as much as his too-long mouth could manage, as if in consideration. Then he spoke up, "Interesting enough. And you're empathetic to those who you are forced to oppress through circumstance?

The FN kept up his stony expression. By and large, he was apathetic about the slaves' suffering. Desensitized. All he had gained as a result of his introspections was a basic sense of right and wrong. It's not good to keep people as slaves. It's not good to abuse them. It's better that they not be slaves. And yet, those ideals were always in the back of his mind, kept prisoner because of his daily life. V'rell was prepared to die himself for the Rebellion. But not for _them_. They were only victims. Dead, for all intents and purposes. He wished they were free, but they weren't. V'rell had to worry about himself.

So what made him think he deserved to be counted among the ranks of freedom fighters?

V'rell looked back at the rebel, "I understand. You seem to want me to tell you that I'm defecting because I feel for the slaves. I wish they weren't being brutalized. But no, their suffering doesn't get to me. Empathy has been beaten out of me. Sympathy? That's another story."

Taul's left eye widened in what was probably an attempt to raise an eyebrow, "Sympathy?"

"Yes. The FNs are locked in a state of servitude ourselves, not matter how hypocritical that sounds to you. The slaves remind me of that. They reflect my own situation. Doing what I don't like, for the rest of my life. Like them, I do want to be free. I want to fight."

Taul met his gaze with an intensity of his own. A frown cut wide across his face, like a stormtrooper's respirator. The being's mockery of feminine features only made it look more foreboding. What was going through this Shi-ido's head? The Rebellion was a group of idealists. They'd hit one fifth of every Zygerrian operation on Yoland's World. Taul had surely been surrounded by former slaves. All of their tales of woe, their experiences, were probably in his head right now, simmering to a boil.

To V'rell's surprise, Taul raised a too-long hand up in a conciliatory gesture, "All right, fo-no. You're broken, and you want the Rebels to fix you. Fine. This isn't a test. This is for my report, so we can gauge what kind of being you are. And how, or if, you'll fit in with actual slaves who hate you. Doesn't matter to me if your blue blood gets you stuck in the gut once we get to the base. But others seem to like the symbolism. I've been ordered to bring you in no matter what."

V'rell relaxed in his seat, a sense of relief coming over him, "That's quite the interrogation you were putting up," he said, "I was inclined to think you were testing my devotion."

Taul leaned his head back, as if suddenly tired of all this. "Ferro, we know you're not a spy. That was never an issue," There was a masculine air to Taul's voice, just enough to perceive. A sign of candidness, perhaps, "First of all, the ISB has no presence on Yoland's World. There are no imperial spies to deploy. Why would they? There are no urban centers and no real interests to protect. In fact, the Empire is probably thanking us. I wasn't lying about the Wookiees. They're using the revolts to cut out the middleman. Zygerria. And besides, we're besieged. A spy would have to be suicidal, because as soon as our shield go down, that Destroyer up there will have to turn the place to glass before a single ship runs its cookie-cutter blockade. This isn't war. It's extermination. Because of that, Serafim isn't too worried about infiltration."

 _This is sensitive information. And he's giving it out casually._ V'rell leaned back in his seat, slowly coming to terms with the idea that he was being accepted as a rebel. This revelation, after all the initial hostility, flipped a switch in him. Despite Taul's prejudices, things were actually being set in stone, "I'm glad to hear that."

Taul straightened his posture then. His expression, or what V'rell could make of it, softened somewhat, "Perhaps I'd best explain the score for you. General Serafim is self-proclaimed. Her group is stand-alone. No ties to the Alliance yet. They're just a cell of freed slaves that happened to catch fire. Also, she's ex-separatist, which is politically tricky to tie ourselves to anyway. She was a slave, staged a revolt, and then touted her old C.I.S. rank like a badge of honor, taking charge. I'm here to consolidate her people, bring it under the Alliance banner. I am the general's sole liaison to the Alliance leadership. Extracting you is a favor, a show of friendship between our two factions."

V'rell found himself intrigued. Not only due to Taul's continued candidness, but the politics of rebellion. He assumed that the Imperial Holo-Net was playing down the threat, that really the Rebellion was well established and had its agents everywhere. Maybe it was his fondness for intrigue that made him think that. But somehow, this appealed to him more. A slave revolt. Rag-tag and desperate. Something made up not of off-world guerrillas, but the actual victims of his culture.

Suddenly a welling occurred in him. Some manner of emotion, triggered by the thought of glorious deeds. And glorious death. Or was it the prospect of redemption? V'rell's brow furrowed at the dark thoughts. _Interesting. I've never really considered dying for the Rebellion before. Dying in the Rebellion, yes. I just wanted a better life for myself, even if it was short. But to die_ for _it? Why does that in particular make my heart flutter?_ V'rell's lip twitched.

"Ferro?" Taul was observing the play in his face, "Not having second thoughts, are we?"

To this V'rell sniggered, "No, agent. Quite the opposite."

Taul's deformed featured approximated surprise. He paused, cocking his head slightly, as if trying to account for this change in the formerly cynical slaver. Taul began speaking again, his feminine voice once again low, "Look, you understand what our situation is, don't you? Our group has no starfighters. Only ground-effects and a handful of armed airspeeders. Any plans we have for escape are useless with that task group trained on us up there. Our supplies won't last, and our transports are barely spaceworthy," Taul paused. Perhaps he noticed the glint in V'rell's eyes, "I've been giving you a hard time because I hate slavers, but also to gauge your willingness to walk into death. That's where my speeder's headed." He raised his chin in an inquiring way.

V'rell smiled, "Agent, I'm afraid of dying here. To die out there, free of my past? Free in fact? Right now, I cannot be more certain of where I want to be."

Taul just sat there for a moment, face still impassive. V'rell fretted. He had made no mention of those he was supposedly fighting for. Was that a mistake? Regardless, the Shi-ido's stony expression broke. Lips pursed, in what looked like grimace of reluctant acceptance. The agent nodded once, "All right. Glad to have you."

End of Part II


	3. Chapter 3

Slaver's Story: Chapter 3

Taul Hi'si spent the rest of the evening with his new charge, planning their exfiltration. They already detailed how they would walk out of the manor. Now they poured over a map of the region, going over the various mountain passes and service stations they would use on their way to the Fron caves. Taul had his timetable planned carefully. By nightfall tomorrow, they would arrive at the base.

V'rell was becoming more interesting. When Taul, disguised as a human, first met him at Trade Town, he had resolved to give the faux-noble the benefit of the doubt. Later, however, Taul's disgust came back as the defector callously downplayed his complicity. Where renouncement of slavery was concerned, Taul had little use for half-hearted convictions. Now, it was as though a switch had been pulled. V'rell was displaying a kind of peace about him. Not the resigned kind. One that was eager. As though a terrific opportunity lay just around the corner. It was uncertain how strong this change in him was, but he was no longer the stoical cynic he was hours ago.

Hopefully, this was a transition. A prelude to the Zygerrian's true self.

It reminded him of a changeling in disguise for too long. The Shi-ido were galaxy-renown anthropologists. But what many didn't know was they had a tendency to "go native" in ways other races couldn't imagine. A Shi-ido's projections did not fatigue the mind. If left engaged for too long, the telepathy would start to influence the one creating it. Some would lose their sense of self. Only the life they assumed would matter. Many Shi-ido found themselves so acclimated to their imagined species that they were unable to turn their projections _off_. After that, it was only a matter of time until their physical bodies fused into place, unable to skin-shift. They would utterly become their mimic, no longer Shi-ido in mind or body.

V'rell reminded him of one of those. He was trying to unlearn the constructs of his race, lest his form lock into place around him. As a rebel, Taul believed no species was born to dominate others. It was a taught behavior, a construct that people grew comfortable with. V'rell, like all others of his class, was shaped into a slaver from childhood. It was hard to break free from such a life, but he was determined to do it anyway, even if it killed him. Given that, Taul could forgive his callousness.

He returned his thoughts to the matter at hand, "So, are we clear? You understand our first steps?"

They went over how they would lie to Tu'lok. They would leave under the guise of securing funds from the Ferros, at the consulate to the south. Then they would vanish. No cover up. No crashed speeder to fool the Zygerrians into thinking they were dead. Just a disappearance.

V'rell nodded as they finalized the plan. Still seated across the table, the one-time slaver spoke, "While we're on the subject of disappearance, where is the real Seka? I know the Di'aks were attacked last cycle, and your human counterpart told me your people had them."

Taul pursed his lips, "We do. They are safe."

V'rell raised his eyebrows, "Is that so?"

Taul took the implication in stride, "War has rules, Ferro. If we get off planet, we intend to ransom our prisoners to the Zygerrian state. If we don't escape, they die with us."

V'rell shrugged, "Sounds reasonable."

"Anyway," Taul continued, "Getting out is phase one. The rest should be easy."

V'rell leaned back in his chair, half a smile on his face, "Yes, about that. Can that speeder of yours handle a sandstorm?"

"Yeah, provided we ground it and lock down. But we'll navigate around them where we can."

Truth be told, Taul Hi'si was ignorant about Yoland's storms, spending most of his time in space. But that's why Iwo, the Duros he had arrived here with, was driving.

V'rell shrugged, clearly doubtful, "If you say so."

"We'll take what comes. This sort of thing is what I do."

The Zygerrian nodded "Of course," there was an eagerness to his eyes. He stood up from his seat, "Well, if that's all…"

Taul held up a hand, "Just one thing before we retire for the night. It's for the report."

The smile vanished from V'rell's face, "Yes?"

Taul looked at V'rell sternly, "Doing this will ruin your father. He has no heir after you. I've been told he thinks well of you, likely the only sentimental figure you've ever had. So tell me. Do you love your father?"

V'rell returned the gaze for a moment, then turned around, pacing slowly across the room, to his desk. Taul could see datapads, a stylus, and filecards strewn about. V'rell seemed to study the mess intently, a focal point for his thoughts. _I'm sure he thought the interrogations were over. Not quite. He has the spark, but now I need to see just how deep it goes_.

The answer came after a moment's pause. "Once, I did," The Zygerrian's eyes were not glazed over by emotion. They were fixed on the stylus on his desk. Perhaps he was recalling all the forms he had filled out. Forms that held the fates of thousands. V'rell continued, "Yes, taking pride in his love was the closest to filial sentiment I've ever felt, agent. But that was a long time ago. He still loves me. He doted on me more than our culture encourages. But it's empty love."

V'rell attempted something of a sardonic smirk as he continued, "Oh, no, it's not unconditional. It's only because I haven't disappointed him that he cares. It's essential for him that I succeed in life, you see. I'm his project. His legacy." V'rell continued, his voice wavering a little, "He is a true believer in all this, in love with money and efficiency, blind to what is right. You deal in projections? He wishes to project himself, his culture, onto me. And I, to spend the rest of my life as a construct of this man, just because he was kind to me?" Emotion was bleeding into his words, "That's an abhorrent thing to suggest, agent. To live in old age, having only become him? Even worse," He turned away from the desk, suddenly looking Taul in the eye, "Maybe he needs a taste of heartbreak, considering his wretched life. He's raised me to be heartless. So yes. To blazes with him."

Taul took the emotional venting in stride, nodding, "All right then. That's what I needed," Taul, still sitting, motioned for the man to leave, "We get up at 800."

V'rell nodded, stood there for a moment, then walked off to his bedroom. Taul smiled to himself. _No love lost between the two of them, apparently. There's rebel fire in him, after all._

The Shi-ido reminded himself why he was doing this for Serafim. The general's group wanted Rebel sanctuary. He was here to prove they were viable and asses their situation, not do favors for them. Not every resistance movement could be helped directly. Or at least that was the calculus. It galled him that the rebel fleet would not come to support their escape. A few light cruisers, perhaps, enough to occupy the Imperial task force while the convoy of transports slipped away…

It was dangerous to stay, but Taul had grown fond of this isolated little movement. Without changing his skin, he had all but gone native. In his mind, it felt only right. Here was rebellion at its essence, distilled into its simplest form. Fist against whip. Slave against slaver.

So when Serafim asked him to extract a certain disaffected FN, Taul couldn't resist offering his talents.

The Shi-ido smiled at the memory. _A slaver turned freedom fighter. Looks like Serafim will get her symbol after all._

That night, V'rell slept better than ever before. He dreamt of glories. He was waging righteous battle with an army of diverse beings, on some forest planet. Crest-helmed Zygerrian guardsmen, armed with lightwhips and blasters, fell to the ground from rebel crossfire. The blaster in V'rell's hands spat from behind a fallen log, scoring a hit. Many of his comrades were dirty and bleeding, emaciated even. But they were smiling, their purpose being fulfilled. Unbeknownst to him, however, the endorphins he worked up from last night's events began to run dry. Like a foul wind, V'rell's battle started getting desperate. His enemies, earlier in the night so easily brought down by his rebel friends, started to intensify their fire. A shoe-shaped Zygerrian fighter spat through the treetops. A clump of rebels flew away in the blast like dolls.

Outside this drama of the mind, the light of morning glowed through tinted glass. The young faux-noble shifted in his sleep. His REM became disrupted, as the sudden turnaround brought minute amounts of adrenaline to his bloodstream. The Zygerrian guardsmen surrounded his band of comrades, and V'rell prepared to receive the burning plasma of his tormentors. At the last moment, fear crested his subconscious, shattering the façade. He awoke with a start. Unfocused eyes scanned the new world before him. He saw the cheap but grand wallpaper on the walls, the fake crystal chandelier hanging from a high ceiling. His fear turned to disappointment, as if he were transformed into some lesser thing.

V'rell's waking mind sought to filter delusion from reality. This manor, his father, and the quarry. Memories of signing procurement forms. Slaves. This was his life, only hours ago, and yet he remembered, last night he changed. Right? The ugly girl skin-shifted him. No. That wasn't right. He had a talk with a rebel agent. He chose to crush his father's dreams. A traitor to everything he'd ever known. Adrenaline still in him, the realities of the present grew clearer.

He was a defector, working to free himself and kill for freedom. And die for it. It would be a good way to perish. A part of him wondered if this was healthy, or if his waking mind was still being influenced by his dream. The rest of him didn't care. V'rell welcomed the feeling, the liberation of self that came with not being afraid to die. It gave him purpose. Meaning, for the first time in his life.

 _And I was afraid to die, wasn't I? Afraid of dying here. I told Hi-si as much._ V'rell smiled to himself, _I'm beginning to see just what this place could never give me. Now, I wake in my bed for the last time._ He smiled, taking in his room, seeing it in a new light. It excited him. _This is it. I should savor the moment. The manor has been my entire existence._

With a buzzing feeling of eagerness, V'rell performed his normal washroom routine, dressed in his typical clothes, and groomed as he had every day of his life. It was a surreal feeling. Nothing would be the same after this. He would live under a new ethos, a new roof, and new friends. He hoped. As he padded across the same carpet he had since childhood, V'rell smiled at the sense of finality in every step.

He had woken early, as per his plan. V'rell, now dressed in his typical business casual, walked over to his window, clicked his teeth twice to de-tint it. Light poured into the room. A fat red sun blazed from behind an ozone horizon, shimmering over the flats. Above it, pinks and greyish blues fought with patches of black, today's stratosphere proving fickle. V'rell smiled. A rising star for a new life. Like the red giant before him, probably a rather short one, ending in a great blaze. V'rell smiled. _I guess there is poetry there after all._ He turned from the view, fixing his cuffs as though about to entertain a guest. Striding forward, he opened the door to his study, and stepped through.

Taul Hi'si was there on the couch, still sleeping. The windows here, of course, were opaqued. he was still the Zygerrian throw-rug from before, illusions sheathed. One arm hung disjointed off the couch. Not appealing to look at in a nightshirt, but V'rell was used to grotesque sights.

V'rell moved in front of the couch, checking the time on his desk's chrono. The day's timeline was set to start in an hour, but he needed him awake now. He'd explain why later, "Agent Hi'si! Time to…"

There was no warning. Midway through his sentence, the rebel agent exploded.

An eruption of limbs, heads, and absurdly proportioned bodies flashed in front of V'rell's eyes. His sense of smell was assaulted by a kaleidoscope of overwhelming odors, and his brain interpreted shrill screaming. Shock took control, and he froze where he stood. When he regained his senses, the sheer horror of the experience kept his face in a state of pained shock.

That, and the hand constricting his windpipe. From three meters away.

Taul was sitting up, dazed, what appeared to be a brown rope stretching from his right shoulder. His face still sported the same deformities as usual, but his eyes were just starting to focus. After seeing who he had in his grasp, Taul let go, leaving V'rell gasping for air. A heavy thump sounded on the floor. He saw the Shi-ido's offending arm snake backwards, contracting like lazy rubber, thin fingers following. At some point several joints rapidly clicked into place, and it was back to normal, fur rippling unnaturally as muscles reconfigured.

The trauma of the event washed over V'rell, and his legs gave way. After a few seconds of pained wheezing, V'rell tried arching his back for a deep gasp of air. He repeated this process, something he learned as a guard for getting over long exposure to Yolandi air. Of course, usually one stood up for that.

Through it all, the rebel agent laughed. Hysterically.

"That, friend," Taul began, "Was a defense mechanism. Sorry about that. But my first thought was I'd been compromised. Then I see your ugly face," he laughed again, "Seriously boy, are you OK?"

V'rell was on his side now, still gasping. Blood had only just returned to his head. Somehow, he was struggling not to laugh as well.

"You didn't piss yourself, did you?"

V'rell did laugh then, in between coughs, staring at what was now Taul's Seka projection, underdressed and beautiful. It was interesting. He knew what this being actually looked like, but could not shake the false image of a beautiful woman from his eyes. _Some ability._ The Zygerrian wheezed sharply to clear his thoat, "Luckily… no. I took… care of that," More laughter. He stood up, shakily regarding the being on the couch, "Blast it, Shi-ido!" he coughed again, "You're enjoying this!"

Taul smiled toothily, his illusion vanishing as he did so. The smile he wore suddenly looked manic, "An intelligence agent takes what perks he can on the job," he rolled his shoulders in a way that did not look comfortable, "Well. That happened."

V'rell, finally getting his lungs back under control, managed to snigger, "Indeed."

The changeling rose from the couch, "Yes. Might want to give me some privacy, though. My kind need to perform some… contortions after sleep. Keeps our forms sound," He let out an alien sort of snicker, "Unless it doesn't bother you. It's your study, after all."

"I take my leave." V'rell bowed playfully and beat a hasty retreat to his room. Grinning, he shut the door and sat heavily on his bed. He rubbed at his neck. It didn't feel like it would be a bad bruise. Then he laughed. He supposed this was what the kids in the wider galaxy called a misadventure. More than that, it was his first altogether friendly interaction as a rebel. _I feel my new life has just begun, right there in the study. Not exactly a trial by fire, but then, that comes next. My own personal rebellion. I will not fail._

As the throbbing of his head passed, he remembered why he got up so early in the first place. Last night, V'rell surprised himself with how he felt for his father, the conflicting, but in the end, overwhelmingly ill feelings he had for him. As he laid out his emotional answer for the rebel agent, the germ of an idea took root in his mind. A plan for revenge. He was developing it as he fell asleep last night. Now, with the agent in question currently preoccupied, he knew that this was the last chance he had to fine-tune it. Taul would not approve, of course, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he needed this. Closure. For the man who abandoned his mother to exercise more control over his life. The being that took pride in his son every time he committed an act of evil. Who beamed when V'rell explained how he would prey on the misfortune of another house. He did hate his father. And Taul wanted them to depart the manor without any fuss. That would not do.

The problem, of course, was convincing Taul of the change in plan. V'rell didn't get quite that far in his planning. He was content to wing it just minutes ago. Did Taul even notice that he had woken him up an hour early? No, he didn't. In fact…

It was obvious. The opportunity was now. He'd steal away and do it now. Taul would forgive him later. He'd be angry, yes, but he couldn't blow his cover, either. In fact, the rebel agent may turn out to be an effective wild-card. Back-up if this didn't go the way he hoped.

V'rell grit his teeth and rose from his bed. He walked over to the bedside mirror, hitting the switch on its frame. The wall behind it retracted and slid down, revealing an emergency passage for egress in the case of a slave revolt. All Zygerrian manors had them as standard. Many of the nobility included auto-blasters in key rooms for good measure. Not this manor, though. V'rell stepped past the threshold and down the simple ladder. No spiral staircase or compact turbolift. After all, ladders were retractable, and removing it would slow down a mob long enough for the defenders to try something desperate. Musing at the appeal of low-tech solutions, V'rell descended into the dark.


End file.
